


Heart

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fix-it fic for Heart<br/>additional warnings: suicide</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart

Madison used to watch  _Buffy_ when she was kid.

She always did have a thing for Oz.

Her throat works up and down, and she stares down at her hands. She imagines them curled into claws that rake people to shreds. And she flinches.

The other brother mentions something about being locked up. Like an animal.

Like a thing.

No fucking way.

She wishes she could stop crying, but there’s too much pressure welling up inside. Too much everything. Too much shit that she doesn’t want to have to deal with. Too many people tying her up, breaking her skin, making her bleed.

She wonders about staying awake at night during the lunar cycle. She wonders how long her body would have the strength to do something like that. She’s afraid that she’s not strong enough for that, especially when she’s old and grey and her skin flakes from her bones and she’s been pitted and freckled with age.

The gun’s on the table, between the three of them.

She was helpless under the first werewolf.

She grips her wrists, forces her fingers to ball into fists. Wishes she could stop her lips from trembling.

She’s helpless under her body.

The other brother guides Sam away. They talk about something. About her. About who should do it. Take her life away before she takes other people’s lives away.

She’s cold inside. Goosebumps on her arms. Hairs sticking straight up. The nape of her neck prickles. The scar itches there.

She scratches it until it hurts.

Sam is crying, just like she is.

Nobody wants to kill her.

Good. Because she doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t want to live like this. The fear. The continuous fear that she’ll lose control, that she’ll kill somebody, without ever even knowing, without even the saving grace of memory—

She deserves to know who she is. She deserves to know what she’s done—every last, impossibly ugly, bloody thing.

She deserves to be saved from that, from the thing inside that takes over, that pushes her down into somewhere deep, into some place inaccessible, from the soul-sucking fear.

She reaches over to the table, grips the gun in her hand. It’s big, and her hand is small. But she knows how it works.

She’s not stupid.

They’re still gone, clustered close together in the hall—the other brother sad and unsmiling, Sam’s shoulders hunched and defeated.

For all she knows, they’re still talking when she puts the barrel in her mouth and pulls the trigger.


End file.
